Old 10-02-2016, 01:11 PM
Daniel Hayes Daniel Hayes is offline
Little Boo
Join Date: Jun 2015
Location: East Mercia
Posts: 7
The Book

Here is my second work (see the Old Man of Queensport in another thread for the first). It is my first foray into poetry. Please feel free to comment etc. Cheers.

The Book

On the second day of October I consigned to the flames,
That dreadful book and its index of long forgotten names,
But how it came to be in my hands is a tale of woe,
And a story I now aim to show.

Long ago it was penned by demon-counselled sorcerer of old Sumer,
Whose deeds were source of many an evil rumour,
To instruct the ambitious in routes to power,
To which end he wrote and wrote for many an hour.

By its teaching did foul Naram conquer Babylon,
The outcome of his battles was for a time always foregone,
And great ziggurats did he raise to ruinous deities,
On which were carried out sacrifices and other unnameable activities.

Naram’s doom did many a learned astrologer portend,
And in fire, blood and war did Naram’s rule end,
The book that was to blame for many a crime,
Was then lost for some time.

In a long-sealed tomb did Craterus the Macedonian find it,
And by its promises were the Hellenes split,
A domain in the East did Craterus desire,
In emulation of King Alexander, of late his sire.

But thwarted was the ambitious general by his soldiers war-weary,
And the book found its way to Egypt’s great library,
There it was studied by many a curious alchemist,
Who hoped by their efforts the book’s secrets to demist.

But from Africa’s possession it was wrought,
And repaired to Rome where aspirants could be taught,
The paths to power, the fulfilment of ambitions,
And the securing of sundry profitable positions.

To Dacian lands the book was carried,
There where the Emperor Trajan tarried,
A people destroyed, an empire expanded,
But lost was the book, for many years in the Carpathians stranded.

Once more was it located, this time by a simple peasant,
Read its content he could not, but sure he was that it was unpleasant,
To Scholomance by Sibiu did he take it, there to be taught by the devil in dark raiment,
But chosen was he as the tenth and detained forever as payment.

Next to possess the book was a vizier in the Grand Turk’s horde,
Who with its knowledge victory after victory scored,
But on the field one day the vizier did encounter someone more vicious even than he,
And he ended his days impaled on a sharpened pine tree.

From wandering gypsies was the book next acquired,
By a Napoleonic marshal who had long admired,
Dark arts and power by any means,
Its secrets he learnt, his dreams to fulfil, to rid the world of kings and queens.

But in the frozen plains before Moscow was yet one more ambition ended,
And the book by another was apprehended,
Amidst the wrack and ruin of humiliating retreat,
And taken away to a Parisian apartment discrete.

When war’s shadow loomed large over Europe once more,
The book was taken back to a familiar shore,
To furnish the libraries of proletarian agitators,
And prepare the way for bloody dictators.

Serpentine schemes engineered the Caesar’s demise, heir to Constantinople,
A worker’s state, whose victory was total,
The fortunes of a hundred functionaries waxed and waned,
From hand to hand the book was exchanged.

The rump of Weimar was throttled by an iron fist,
And Barbarossa’s imposter strode across the steppe, millions reduced to grist,
The men in black jackets seized the book,
And homeward they bore it, with the rest they took.

From East and West, Germany was overcome,
Against such odds, it was inevitable that they should succumb,
From Wewelsburg the book was retrieved, not the sole arcane find,
To an English base undisclosed it was carried, to be stored with others of its kind.

To Shuckland, among East Angles the book was hid,
Until one day it was smuggled out, though the military did forbid,
To my collection it was added, the better to glean prohibited lore,
Nothing would now my rise athwart, to the night I swore.

But a Beatific vision from on high,
Caused me to cease, to draw up nigh,
If my left hand cause me to stumble, better to cut if off, lest I be descended forever to burn,
So into the fire I did cast it, that dreadful book, and its doom I did spurn.
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